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Back in my day, there's a way to make me feel older than my years, prom included dinner (chicken or beef being the choices) and dancing. The ticket prices were $100 a couple, or you could save half and go stag, still very expensive for a dance that was supposed to be a right of passage in your final days of high school, but given the fact that they were giving you food and a decorated stage to throw your last angsty tantrum, after all, what is a successful prom without three girls crying in the restroom all at the same time because Jimmy happened to look at the class hoochie in the dress UP TO THERE and sure, only one of the girls is crying because Jimmy did a double take, but the other two are her best friends in the entire world, "Let's never fight, okay?", and her tears are making them cry since, you know, you have to be included or you're EXcluded, right? and what better way to show solidarity than to ruin your mascara?, you didn't ask questions.

The limos, teaming with twenty or so teenagers since it was cheaper to share, would pick everyone up at a certain location and deposit them all at the destination, in my school's case, a hotel where the prom was held. (Our gym was big enough to house the festivities so I'm not sure why my alma mater decided to go offsite. Maybe because our mascot was a Trojan and the administrators thought too many visual cues would lead to after prom sex? Or maybe they were just lazy and knew what kind of idiots they were dealing with in our student body and decided they'd rather pay the fee, and pass the debt onto us in the ticket prices, and not have to deal with the aftermath since someone was sure to throw up from too much pre-prom raiding of the parents' liquor cabinet and something was bound to get broken so it might as well be at a hotel. Group rates on rooms? Bonus.) (Yes, in some cases, irony CAN smell like a corsage.)

The party-goers went in, had their hand-holding picture taken, even if they were fighting, and chances were, given the rebounding rate of teens and their emotions in those days, three or four break ups and make ups happened on the course of the drive over, (Who wants to be the photographer on THAT gig?) and then pushed on toward the tables were the first course salad was waiting to be dissected and scrutinized while everyone sat and stared at each other until the actual dancing started. Once the king and queen were crowned (rigged), the room population would typically deflate as people started to head to the real parties, you know, the ones where you didn't care if your dress got ruined since the photos at this event would never be brought before your parents anyway.

Now it seems that prom schedules and even the structure have evolved.

In my area, prom no longer includes dinner, begins around 8, and lasts until 11 before unleashing a tidal wave of Spanx clad hormones onto the public at large. I'm not sure about the ticket prices, or where the dances are held, since Sprite is too young for this drek, but I'm sure, when the time comes for Sprite to fret over whether or not So-n-So is going to ask her, I will then admit to her that we're actually Siberian, and being called home, right now, yes, NOW, "pack an overnight bag, love. We'll ship the rest." and take a month sabbatical, coming home when it's time to graduate. She may not graduate with the rest of her class since she missed all the finals, but she can make it up in summer school, easy, and summer school classes don't have prom. Yes, I've thought about this a lot. Notice the extremes I'm willing to go through? That involve passports?

A few weekends ago, my good friend Debbie and I stepped out for a girls night, dinner and talking. LOTS of talking. (Our server probably hated us. Or loved us considering that was one less table he had to hover over and he didn't seem too keen on actually serving that night.)

While nursing our drinks, (Yes, I actually had a drink. Debbie was so proud of me!) we looked up to see a group of twelve well dressed prom-bound kids take their seats at a larger table. We remarked over the beautiful dresses, sleek hair-dos, the nicely tamed styles on the boys, everything over all and how lovely they looked together.

Of course, a low cut, open back dress got the critical eye as we quickly decided neither of our daughters would ever be given permission to wear something as revealing once they became of age, but I'm moving to Siberia, remember?

We were actually impressed with these kids since they weren't disruptive, ate their meals, and left so quietly, we didn't even notice they were gone until the table had been bussed. In fact, the hostess was far more angsty than their crowd as she flitted from table to table in a quick effort to get silverware bundles placed. Maybe she was missing her prom??

I guess I've come to realize that prom isn't really about the dance anymore. It's about being seen. By your date, your friends, the general public, anyone you come into viewing distance of. The dance kind of becomes second to the promenade around town that happens first. "Hey, look at me! Don't I clean up nice? I look like a grown up!" which would probably explain why I passed three limos parked outside Starbucks last Saturday. I'm sure it will continue to change as time goes on. By the time Sprite is ready for that stage, proms may not even involve the dance anymore. Kids will just buy an overpriced dress or rent a tux, do themselves up to the nines, hop in a limo and make four or five stops about town so people can actually see who was able to afford the lemon yellow stretch Hummer before getting to the hotel for the night.

I hear Siberia is nice in May..

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Oh, the memories, the pictures, the taffeta! Click on these Spinners and fill that dance card!

I can't believe that in almost two years of Spin Cycle, we have not tackled technology. Or have we and I have simply forgotten? Maybe next week we can take on dementia..

Anyway, technology. It's everywhere. You can't escape it, and if you're reading this post right now, you're obviously using technology to access my site, so there you go.

I may resist technology for the most part, kind of hard considering I live with a man who makes his living playing with gadgets and gigabytes, and am raising a three year old who knows her way around the iTouch so well, even John is impressed as her fingers fly across the screen finding her movies.

What are your thoughts on technology? Love it or lump it? Is technology moving too far too fast? Are we not as far as you thought we would be? Did you seriously think The Jetsons was like looking into the actual future and are now disappointed that we may realistically be closer to The Flintstones? Does anyone else make Hanna Barbara references in regards to life? (Give me five minutes. I'll work a Smurf into it somewhere..)

Spin your thoughts on technology and e-file it on over here by Friday, June 4th or it will be hell on your hard drive.

And, as John would say, BACK UP YOUR FILES! (No, seriously, he says it. A lot. At the most inopportune times..)

May 26, 2010

I just Googled it. I'm right, but John left the room, so I can't celebrate. Bummer.

On with the story...

I have a friend at work who offers me the toys out of her Happy Meal when she has a yen for the Golden Arches. I have to relish this while I can since 1. we hardly EVER get Sprite any Happy Meals unless we are in a situation where McDonald's is right next to us and Sprite is taking hostages and even the meager Goldfish stash won't help negotiations and 2. when she starts having kids, I will lose out on this freebie. Unless she likes Sprite more than her own. Improbable but not impossible.

On Thursday, she handed me a Barbie-esque Mermaid figurine, perfect for bath play, which I stuck into my purse, intending to give it to Sprite sometime during the weekend as a reward for good behavior or a last ditch effort to keep her from climbing the walls. (Guess which situation earned the toy? I'll give you a hint, it's not the first choice.)

Mother's Day brought with it a journey across state to see the women responsible for our existenses (although any blame for our actions ended the day we handed in our keys) and a child who was at her limit of patience by the time we finally arrived. In a display of sympathy, I yanked the mermaid figure out of my purse and let John make a big deal out of opening the plastic bag, Sprite's excitement for this somewhat french fry smelling toy growing as she claimed the prize for her own, which she quickly named "Ariel". (Never mind the fact that this "Ariel" did not have red hair, any friends with claws named Sebastian, nor was Disney's tattoo anywhere near the bag's markings advising that the plastic wrap was indeed NOT a toy.)

That mermaid stayed in her posession for a majority of our visit, until at one point, into the afternoon, she walked over to me, her face pensive. "I can't find my Ariel."

I scanned the room from where I sat at the table, not able to locate it, but then, the evidence of my two other nieces and their toys dotting the landscape made singling out a figurine difficult. I gave up my conversation and joined her in a search and rescue for the Mattell Mermaid.

We interviewed several possible witnesses, uncles and aunts, grandparents alike, denying to have seen a flipper wearing female swimming around the living room. Being surrounded by family, I offered up a halfhearted, half-attentive "Don't worry, sweets. I'm sure it will turn up." and returned to the talks already in progess as Sprite turned to other activities.

Now, I don't know where she found the cherished mermaid or how it ended up in the bathroom with her, but a trip to the potty ended up being the mermaid's freedom flight. All I know is that I was sitting at the dining room table, talking with my parents and my sister's-in-law father when John, his mom, and a crying Sprite walked out of the master bedroom.

"Jen, we need to make a stop at the mall," John advised, pointing to my angst-ridden tyke.

"Why? I packed a change of clothes in the van." An accident.

"No, her clothes are fine. The mermaid is gone."

"What are you talking about?"

"She was trying to flush the toilet when somehow the mermaid fell into the pot and it went out with the tide."

Cue insane laughter. (I know. I've been told before I need to keep my giggles in check especially when my woe-my-mermaid-be-gone one is trying so stoically to hold it together.)

John continued, "I was even going to stick my hand in to get it, but she pulled the trigger too quickly."

Turn up the volume on insane laughter. (I know! I know! BAD parent!)

Sprite's face crumpled with the fresh memory as the adults started complimenting the power of the plumbing necessary to take out the toy. (This is where I believe torque is involved.)

Seeing her tear covered face, I could only offer the advice she was exposed to every time we watch Finding Nemo, "Don't worry, Sprite. All drains lead to the ocean!" (Huh, with all the life lessons that movie has to offer, trust in your friends, learn to let go, never let a difference stop you from trying, and I use the pull quote that has to do with pipes.)

Would you believe this somehow comforted our child? Of course it did! The mermaid lives on! Even if her skin now resembles the color of Tidy Bowl, she is alive and probably caught up to Nemo by now! In fact, they're most likely skimming the waves of the EAC with Crush and all the other turtles! (At least, this is what you'll say to her. Keep the lie alive, people.)

So, Sprite's brush with the commode current has turned from a teary tirade of "I flushed my Ariel down the toilet!" to a more matter of fact "I flushed my Ariel down the toilet" that she is more than happy to repeat in mixed company whether or not John or I am there to provide an explanation afterwards.

AND we haven't had to buy any replacement Happy Meals to find her another fish friend.

(WARNING! Holy crap, I crammed a lot into this RTT. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to come back a few times to finish this post considering I had to take a breather while editing it. It's like the worst criticism ever, me actually getting up WHILE READING MY OWN WORDS, because I wanted myself to get to the point already.)

(In my mind, that last thought completely worked.)

All these years!

All these years I was led to believe one thing and it ends up being something different.

For two and a half decades! I think I deserve an apology.

All the times I thought I was getting away with something when I would sing along to Lionel Ritchie's "You are the Sun, You are the Rain" and get to the climax where he wails out "Oh damn, baby!" And I would sing it loud and proud, my smile daring anyone over the age of knowing better to punish me for sticking to the lyrics. Feeling the power of cursing because I was SUPPOSED to do it. Lionel said so.

It quickly became my flagship song of the early 80's. Even in the nineties, I would turn the volume up when the song began on the radio and harmonize with Lionel, my accomplice in musical manslaughter.

Only to learn that he was actually singing "...again and again and AH-GAIN, baby!"

I feel betrayed. I also feel like a dolt since no one ever tried to correct me the many many times I commandered that tune in Karaoke.

I'm waiting for that apology, Mr. Ritchie.

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John had made plans with our friend Trevor to watch a live cage fight (I'm sure there's another name for it, something official that makes people respect the sport, really? sport?, but as soon as I hear the tiny detail of people beating the living snot out of each other until someone not only falls, but loses IQ points, I tune out.) on Saturday night, so it was Sprite and me and a movie for the evening. I had kept her good and up for the entire day with Story Time, errands, even a trip to the community pool -

-I am totally interrupting that thought with another one. Because I can. A pool outing costs $4 for one adult and one child. We went on the late side, arriving at the gates at 3:15, only to be warned by the attendant that the pool would be closing at 4. Sprite was so exited about the water, I conceded to the wallet and paid the full price for forty-five minutes of crawling along the wall since some big kids splashing in the immediate area kept her from dunking more than her legs. While I was trying to coerce her into the actual pool, I noticed the lifeguards banding together for a little pow-wow and pointing to an area on the far side of the pool. Finally one of them walked over to the manager, who was standing right in front of me and the wall-walking Sprite to tell him about the kid who yakked in the water and it was now spreading into the more populated areas. As I understood the comtamination was coming our way, I ended our very short swimming lesson and pulled Sprite from the water. Immediately after, the manager made the announcement and used the word "contamination", and the mass exodus from the pool began in earnest, reminding me of that infamous scene from Caddy Shack with the floating candy bar. They offered free passes to everyone since they didn't get the full experience, we basically got a free ride for Saturday, or whenever we go back for a much longer session, whichever way you want to look at it..-

and a movie complete with popcorn to dull her senses into sleepy submission so I could relax with my own movie later while I had the house to myself. Blue decided I should steam clean Sprite's room instead, since she picked that one room (thank goodness it was the only one) to spread the...um..cheer. Yes, I meant "spread". The eight-thirty bedtime flew past while I pulled out the Hoover, listening to Sprite admonish Blue in her best authoritarian voice, "Blue, bad dog! You poopy in my room! You should poopy on the potty! BAD DOG!" No, I did not get my movie. Yes, the dog got to live.

For now.

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Sorry, Tim Allen, you are now forever marked by your connection to Toy Story. Sprite overhead a pure Michigan commercial and immediately shouted, "Buzz Lightyear!" Now, whenever she hears it, she runs to whereever the tv is and demands to see Buzz.

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Lost is over. I have questions. The creators KNEW I would have questions... I hate that.

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Okay, I just read Entertainment Weekly's recap. I feel better about it all. JJ Abrams is back on my good side.

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So, yes, due to the wonderness and super-intelligence that was Lost, I had decided to take Monday off as a Mental Health Day, sleep in a little, re-charge my batteries, stroll through the blogosphere in the morning before the sun became too hot, I had a DAY planned and none of it involved responsibility.

4:30 AM, Monday morning, I smelled it before I opened my eyes.

Blue had done it again. Her frequent accidents throughout Sunday (on the plus side, our hallway, bedroom and Sprite's room TWICE are looking steam cleaned fresh!) and the increasingly metallic scent of blood was worrying us (us being John and me, Sprite took great pleasure in yelling at Blue for us) to the point that we were debating on whether or not to wait it out or bring her to the vet as soon as possible. Thanks to my bladder and turning on my bedside lamp to look upon the various landmines she had left in her wake, we decided to bring her before the medical people. AFTER we steamed our bedroom carpet one last time. (I still get a giggle picturing John pushing the Hoover, clad in only boxers. And not complaining. I love that man.)

We got a couple more hours of sleep before Sprite decided to begin her day, so suffice it to say, both John and I were running ragged. I offered to take Sprite to school since the center is right across the street from our vet. I thought I would just drop Blue off to get things started, run Sprite to her class, and get back for a diagnosis. Planning be damned! Instead, thanks to the symptoms I had described (stupid me and my need to be wordy) to the front desk nurse (she was wearing scrubs, so I'm guessing she was a nurse??), she requested I repeat those same descriptions to the attending nurse who wanted to see us in Exam Room #2 right away.

Okay, I thought it would be a few minutes as I rattled off the same speech again, only to be interrupted by her leaving the room every few minutes to relay my words to the doctor, who was still enjoying his morning latte. Finally, she came back, said she was leaving once more, and told me to wait for the doctor who would only be a minute at the most.

I need to revisit my definition of "minute".

FINALLY, the doctor came in, asked me for a replay one.more.time, and even interacted with an extremely impatient Sprite while I spoke. Point to the doctor for taking an interest in a child. Point against the doctor for taking a forty-five second spiel and stretching it to a ten spot for the many times I had to repeat myself.

When he began discussing the tests they would run to find out what was ailing our poor Blue, Sprite chose to insert a phrase into every pause he made. "Really, doctor? REALLY?" (I'm raising my hand on that one. Totally my fault. My snark too..)

The break I had been waiting for came as they trotted Blue off to "the back" to administer the tests. I quickly explained that I was going to take Sprite to school and then come back to collect the mutt, and Sprite realized she was losing her audience of admirers for she decided then and there that she could not leave Blue alone and started her own dramatic scene by burying her head into my shoulder with huge wracking sobs. I kid you not, as soon as we walked outside, she lifted her face and smiled, eyes completely dry.

And I kid you not, I called her on it. "Next time, try swooning."

When she learns what swooning is, I'll start saving money for drama classes.

(Blue should be fine by the way. Eighty bucks for confirming an upset stomach and a special diet of ground beef and rice for the next few days should have her right as rain. I just have every carpet blocked off for added insurance until we're sure the storms have passed.)

Oy, too much random for one day! I cannot go on! Hopefully, you heeded my Ides of May and fled to The Un Mom already, but seeing as I waited until the end to give you the hyperlink, I had you right where I wanted you..

May 21, 2010

The house isn't clean, the dirty dishes haven't been placed in the dishwasher, or worse, they have when the clean contents haven't been removed yet, schedules aren't kept, time isn't taken as seriously as it should be.

This is the stuff that makes my left eye twitch. (Not the right one for some reason..)

I am known as the Watch Keeper, the Clean Keeper, the Schedule Keeper in my home. John and Sprite gratefully give up any responsibility for these items as I seem only too happy to take them on.

I don't have much else to stress over in life as my job is a good one, sure I could stress about the amount of work, but I find it easier to step back and remind myself that no matter how hard or quickly I work, the amount will not go down. It's a fact and I can accept this. I don't stress about traffic unless some bozo doesn't watch and cuts a merge within an inch of my front bumper causing me to slam my brakes and my tongue to catch the curse that's dangling from the tip of it. (If the kid's not in the car, I am completely allowed and totally vindicated to let the words fly out.) After a few minutes of stewing, I typically let it go.

I don't stress about money since we're extremely controlled about how much we spend, where we spend it, and have an eagle eye on what goes in and out, therefore why stress? The red is going down, slowly but surely. As long as it continues the downward trend, I don't feel obligated to jump on it.

If you read between the lines of everything I've listed, you'll notice that most of my stress comes from control, or lack of it, when I'm trying to control it.

I can harp and nag and push John and Sprite all I want, but their internal clocks are not in tune with mine. John comes from a family who believes the clock is a suggestion more than a rule. (If you're ever invited to their home for a party that begins at 7, it doesn't usually crowd until 9. Not that it's wrong, just not what I'm used to.) I come from a family where we were typically early for events due to my father's insistence on getting out the door with time to spare. So, when I want to leave for Story Time which is on a Saturday morning, which typically begins at 11, which is about a thirty minute drive if you catch all green lights, and it's ten thirty and John is still getting ready, I stress.

About Story Time? Really, Jen?

Yes, really. Ask John. He'll confirm it and time-stamp it.

Sprite is the lesser of the two second stealing evils since I can prod her easily by threatening her with losing out on Goldfish, a movie, or even a ride in the blue car. (In fact, I use this threat every morning to get her out of bed. "Do you want to go in the grey car?" "NOOOO! I WANT THE BLUUUUE CARRRR!" With all the hysterics, you'd think John's car is lacking things like doors or air conditioning or even brakes, but we know the real reason is because the blue car has a DVD player. We're not stupid. Just weak.) But, even knowing that I'm dealing with two people who don't mean to make me late, or think they're doing me a favor when they bring a dish to the sink which doesn't quite make it in the basin before some of the milk that was sloshing around in the bowl is on the floor and "Oh, sweetie thank you so much for helping Mommy out what a big girl you are John get the mop."

Stress level up, so is my time, and now I have mere minutes to get the kid strapped in safely, and back down the driveway without hitting the neighbor's cat. (One of them. Or all of them. There are so many strays flocking to the house across the street, Sprite makes it a morning game to count them all as we're packing up the van.) (This also makes me late. And there goes that twitch again.)

I really need to come to terms with this control issue I have, especially over the small stuff. You know, get control, take control, and.. um..

May 19, 2010

I've made mention before about how much I love Michele's art. Whenever she displays a picture of her latest masterpiece on It's A Dog's Life, (why yes, that blog is not just about librarians, it's about librarians who paint, and cook, and snark, and please tell me you've already discovered this gem and are thinking "I KNOW this, Jen! Where do you THINK I've been?") I usually cast in a comment that begspleadsoffers my firstborn for asks nicely for her to maybe give up one of those beauties in a give away, a give away that only I can enter, since I had lost the one she previously had. (Stupid randomness.) (Not you, Keely, the laws of randomness in general.)

Well, throughout the course of her travels over the last few months, (Have I mentioned she travels a lot?) she has actually found time to paint and showed off these two beauties:

"So another give away of your paintings, yes? If I keep entering, I'll have to win SOMETIME.. :-)

(Yes, I do happy face emoticons in my comments. What? It's not like I LOL all over the place. Have to show the joy somehow..)

I can't believe my luck. Guess who sent me her daisy picture??!!?!

No, really! Guess! You'll probably get it!

And I'm not sure if I ever told her daisies are my favorite flowers, she just told me she was thinking of me when she painted it. (Not because I drown her comments in whining requests for artwork. At least, I hope it's not because of that.)

As soon as I received it, I placed this picture everywhere until I finally stood back and said, "John, help me!"

Now, it sits nestled in our music holder (The dang thing was unused for the longest time. John plays by ear and Sprite... well, we're not quite sure what she plays by yet. Judging by the dogs covering their ears and me fleeing the room, I'm guessing fear is involved..) on our dresser in our bedroom.

As much as I wanted to show the world (or at least the part of the world that walks through our front door) just how much I loved it, featuring it in our kitchen (pretty dark and red) would just not do, and the green of our walls in the main living room does not compliment the colors at all.

We finally decided on our room because of this:

(Why, yes, that IS the Nord jumping into the shot. Don't worry, he's back on my good side. I'm just hoping to stay on his.)

I won't even try to make you believe that is the original, but it IS painted and it was our first art purchase when we moved into our home back in 2005. Both John and I were drawn to the strong yet soothing colors and have not felt so confident with decorating since. (Even Sprite, not interested in anything without the Disney logo splashed across it, has stopped to regard it closely and calls it "our flower picture".)

Thanks to Michele's lovely gift and the accidental push she gave us, we're finally ready to commit to a paint color for our bedroom, taking the apricot-y mango-y orange-y colors and going for the gold.

Or the orange.

So again, a big heartfelt thank you for the lovely piece of art, Michele. This post cannot express enough how happy and proud I am to showcase it in my home and will upgrade our nickel tour to the dime edition so everyone gets to stomp through the master bedroom to see it.

(Now, if you're inspired, our kitchen is merlot red and our main walls are sage green and a good percentage of those walls are bare...)